


Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Helpful Aziraphale, Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-05-12 20:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19236109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Things don't go entirely to plan after they've stopped Armageddon.Turns out I have enough ideas to make this into a little series of vignettes. Chapter 1 is the set up; the rest are broadly designed to be read in order as Crowley experiences different facets of being human. They would stand alone, I suppose, but I'm hoping the slow build of affection between angel and (ex) demon make them work better in order.





	1. Fallen

Aziraphale stretched, the warmth inside him still bubbling away. The book, now closed, still evoked flashes of the universe in which he’d immersed himself, and he stroked its spine fondly.

“That was lovely,” he murmured to it, standing to find its place on the shelf. He never failed to put his books back in exactly the right place, spines aligned; it was the least he could do, after the pleasure they brought him. The habitual smile faded a little as he considered the years now stretching ahead. Heaven was done with him, from what he could tell; there had been no contact for over a week. Part of him wondered if they would leave him here for eternity, or if there was another plan afoot.

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t on their team anymore, much as he loathed the sports metaphor. According to Crowley, it was the two of them now – one fallen more recently, the other more completely – but neither welcomed back into Heaven. Aziraphale shifted, considering the demon’s words. He wasn’t entirely sure where he sat with them, to be honest with himself.

It should be simple. He was an angel, Crowley was a demon. Hereditary enemies. End of story.

And yet over the millennia they had grown more similar until the act of inhabiting each other’s bodies had fooled even those in Heaven and Hell. Nobody in Heaven cared for Aziraphale in the same way. Nobody even tried to understand him, and he had to admit, it hurt. After so many years on Earth, of course he would have learned to live among the humans, to take on their traits, sample the things that brought them pleasure.

How could he reasonably be expected to survive here without eating? It was ridiculous.

The irony of a demon’s kindness outstripping all the angels in Heaven was not lost on Aziraphale. It was the first time they’d met, Crowley’s casual assurance that he probably couldn’t do anything wrong – a sentiment that flew in the face of everything he’d been told since his creation. The small words and actions showed Aziraphale a being that may be of Hell but certainly was not representative of it.

The angel was startled out of his thoughts by a rapping on the door. It was hours past closing; he could simply wait for the person to leave. Anyone he wanted to see – and it was a very short list indeed – could manifest themselves inside, should they care to visit.

He flicked his eyes nervously as the rapping continued, his anxiety spiking. Surely it was more polite to speak to this person, even if their behaviour was less than ideal?

As he hurried to the door, the voice on the other side became clearer.

“Aziraphale! It’s me, you must be in there, come on…”

“Crowley!”

Before Aziraphale could say more, the demon had pushed his way in, muttering to himself.

“How nice to see you,” the angel continued, largely to the empty air as he secured the door. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No,” Crowley said shortly. He moved restlessly, even more so than usual. “Anyone else here?”

The question did not strike Aziraphale as odd until much later. The demon could determine for himself if there was anyone else here; it was simple enough and he’d done it numerous times before.

“No,” Aziraphale replied with a smile. “Just me.”

“Good,” Crowley growled, flicking on all the lights he could find.

“What…what are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, watching the long limbs dart around the room until his bookshop was ablaze with lights.

“I need your help,” Crowley said.

“I see,” Aziraphale replied, clearing his throat. “With what, exactly?”

“My car’s been clamped,” he said bluntly. “I need you to miracle it out.”

“You need me to…why?” Aziraphale asked in bewilderment. “I mean, certainly, but why can’t you do it yourself?”

Crowley sighed, and for the first time since he’d walked in, stopped pacing. He stood still, facing Aziraphale, who had a sudden feeling of dread.

This could not be good.

Crowley raised one hand to his sunglasses and removed them, blinking in the bright light.

Blinking wide, brown eyes.

Human eyes.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, stepping closer, his own blue eyes searching these unfamiliar pair for something. Amusement, a prank, some unseen motive for what felt like a cruel joke indeed.

Nothing.

“What happened?” Aziraphale whispered. He was close enough now to raise one hand to Crowley’s face, empathy rising in his chest. It must have been something significant to change his eyes.

“The Lord of Hell has decided I am no longer welcome,” Crowley replied, trying for his usual tone of levity and failing miserably. “I’ve fallen. From Hell.”

“Fallen from Hell?” Aziraphale repeated in disbelief. “How does that even happen?”

A deep breath, and Crowley explained. They’d taken him soon after dawn, bundling him down to an audience with Satan himself. He was a disappointment, no longer worthy if he could bath in holy water without even steaming a little. So they were cutting him free.

“Free?” Aziraphale knew he was repeating words but this was too incredible to be believed on the first hearing. “So you’re…what?”

“Immortally human, apparently,” he replied. “This body is as fragile as it ever was, but assuming I can last another six thousand years without wrecking it…” he shrugged.

“And what happens when you…if you…” Aziraphale swallowed, the idea too terrible to contemplate.

“Die?” Crowley said with a flash of his old humour. “Not welcome in Heaven, not welcome in Hell…guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, flustered at the very idea. “Might I assume that your difficulties freeing your car are related?”

“No miracles from this ex-demon,” he said. “For all intents and purposes, I’m human.”

“Except for the aging,” Aziraphale said. “Well, that’s something.” Assuming Crowley wanted to stay, they would still have each other.

“Except for that,” Crowley replied.

“I like it,” Aziraphale said. “The colour.”

“Of my eyes?” Crowley replied. “I don’t know. It’s all…weird.”

“Oh, you’ll grow into it.” Aziraphale smiled. “Another century or so and you’ll be used to it.”

“I guess so,” Crowley said. “What am I going to do with myself, though? No more messing with the freeways or the phone towers. I just have to,” he looked around doubtfully, “live?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “You do.” He looked around with far more affection than Crowley had managed. “You could help me run the bookstore.”

“Me?” Crowley said. “Running a bookstore?”

“You could chase up the debtors,” Aziraphale suggested. “Some people are quite alarmingly in arrears. You could be quite cross at them, if you wished.”

“Really?” Crowley replied.

“Really,” Aziraphale replied fondly.


	2. Sneezing

“Bless you,” Aziraphale said absently, frowning at his ledger. Surely there were more customers in arrears than this? If there were mistakes he would have to work through the night to resolve them.

“What?” Crowley gasped. The odd, strangled sound made Aziraphale look up. The demon was frozen, limbs akimbo with one hand to his face. “You didn’t just bless me, Angel!”

Aziraphale blinked. “You sneezed, did you not?”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I sneezed.”

“It is traditional to bless those who sneeze,” Aziraphale told him, peering more closely. “Are you well, Crowley?”

“I _sneezed_ ,” Crowley said, almost falling over with the emphasis he placed on the word. “I don’t sneeze, I’m a demon, germs burn up on contact.” Two more sneezes exploded from him, jolting his body. His eyes went wide. “Am I sick? Oh Hell, I’m getting sick. I’m dying, I won’t even last a week in this stupid mortal flesh suit.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. “You are not dying.” At the disbelieving look, the angel continued brightly, “Well, if you are sick, this could be the best time in history for it to happen. Remember the bubonic plague? Or influenza in 1918.” He shuddered, his false smile sliding a little before returning with a vengeance. “Medical science is more advanced than ever.”

“You’re an _angel_ ,” Crowley said. “Heal me!” He held his hands out dramatically.

“That is hardly an option, Crowley.” Aziraphale looked at him, a fond exasperation on his face. “Humans are susceptible to illness, you know this. It’s unlikely to be something serious.”

“Well if it turns out I have…” Crowley cast around for a moment, “ebola or something, you’ll heal me then right?”

Aziraphale felt his eyes soften. “Of course, Crowley.”

For a moment they held each other’s eyes. Reality rippled a little around them; Aziraphale shivered. The former-demon’s eyes were so different now, but the same soul resided there, clear as day, resonating gently with the angel in front of him.

And then five sneezes tore from Crowley, one after the other, breaking the spell.

“Bless you,” Aziraphale murmured, supressing the smile at Crowley’s scowl. He cleared his throat, eyes casting around before settling on the lilies he definitely hadn’t bought. “Where did these flowers come from?”

“Flowers?” Crowley repeated. His eyes followed Aziraphale’s gaze. “Well yes, I picked them up, thought they might,” he waved one arm around, “brighten things up.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, understanding on his face. “There is a confectioner along the road,” he said, “who makes a simply scrumptious chocolate fudge.”

“So?” Crowley said blankly.

“It might brighten things up more if you don’t bring gifts that make you sneeze,” Aziraphale suggested.

“What…” Crowley looked back and forth between Aziraphale and the flowers, disgust blooming on his face as he realised. “I’m allergic?!”

“It appears so,” Aziraphale agreed.

“To _flowers_?!” Crowley shouted. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

With an exasperated glance, Aziraphale picked up the flowers and brought them to the demon. “Breathe in,” he instructed. Such were his expectations, he was able to move out of the way as soon as the sneezing started, collecting tissues and waiting until the demon was still again.

“How did you even get them here?” The angel asked. “You must have sneezed on the way here, if you were carrying them.”

“Paid a kid to carry them for me,” Crowley admitted. “Oh, and now I can’t breathe, I’m all stuffy and… _why in all the circles of Hell am I crying_?”

Tactfully ignoring the tears, Aziraphale placed the flowers on the table. “You’re not a demon anymore, Crowley. Your body will respond differently now.”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley said, wiping at his nose and screwing up his face. “This human body is all…” he shuddered. “Moist.”

“Crowley, I think it best if we send out for some medication,” Aziraphale said. He snapped his fingers and the flowers – and all their pollen – were gone, a packet of antihistamines sitting on the sideboard instead. “Here, take two of these. I understand your symptoms will subside now that the flowers are gone.”

Long fingers took the tablets, one eyebrow rising. Aziraphale, refusing to rise to the bait, poured a glass of water. He watched Crowley’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed the tablets.

_Apt name. Temptation, indeed._

“Come and lie down,” Aziraphale said. “The medication will take effect sooner that you think.”

“Oh, are they?” Crowley asked vaguely, having ignored Aziraphale’s comments. The angel helped him over to lay down on the sofa, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his mouth. They both settled, Aziraphale sitting as close as he dared.

“Bought them for you,” Crowley mumbled. His voice was drowsy now; Aziraphale wondered how he would cope with fatigue. Something told him Crowley’s demon years were not filled with long restful nights.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale murmured in reply.

“The flowers. Bought them for you,” Crowley repeated. He opened his eyes, red and hazy with hayfever and medication. “Thought you might like them.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied. Watching the ex-demon breathing was hypnotic, and Aziraphale sat longer than he had planned. “Sleep well.”

He watched Crowley for a few moments more before adding quietly, “That was very kind.” He didn’t know why he said it; it was like half a ritual, lacking the, ‘Shut up!’ that was Crowley’s usual retort. Crowley wouldn’t even know he’d said it.

When Aziraphale did stand up, walking quietly away, he missed the smile that crossed the ex-demon’s face.


	3. Hunger for Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's hungry.  
> (I know, that's pretty obvious - but I dare you to make a chapter summary about food without it sounding smutty). ;)

“I am NOT HUNGRY,” Crowley said crossly.

“You have to eat, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. “Your body actually requires it now.”

“Yours doesn’t,” Crowley retorted. He sighed. “I don’t even like Brussel sprouts!”

“In duck fat, Crowley!” Aziraphale tried to entice him, spearing a sprout on his fork. “With bacon!”

“Urgh,” Crowley said deliberately. “If it’s so good, you eat it.”

“Oh, I shall,” Aziraphale said, taking his fork to his own mouth.

When Crowley shoved his plate across and slumped in his seat, Aziraphale sighed. “You simply must eat something,” he implored. “What would you like?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied.

“Crepes?” Aziraphale asked. “Oysters?”

“No.”

“Did you ever try oysters?” Aziraphale asked, taking another Brussel sprout into his mouth. When Crowley gave him a crossly blank stare, Aziraphale prompted, “Rome, don’t you remember? When was it. Not long after, er, Golgotha.” He looked expectantly at Crowley.

“Oh yeah. You were going to try them at some restaurant,” Crowley said. “Someone did remarkable things to them.”

“Petronius,” Aziraphale said, remembering.

“And did they live up to reputation?” Crowley asked, sounding more like his old self.

“No,” Aziraphale said musingly. “Disappointingly bland.”

Crowley sank back, resolutely sullen and ignoring Aziraphale.

“Did you ever eat anything?” Aziraphale asked. He frowned, trying to remember the meals they had shared. He had eaten, of course; there were few pleasures on Earth for a somewhat lonely angel, and Aziraphale had never been one to eschew good food. Crowley was big on dessert, as he recalled. Sometimes he only ordered dessert, instead watching Aziraphale sample course after course with that slightly enigmatic smile. The one that made Aziraphale flustered and flushed without good reason.

“Not really,” Crowley said lazily. “Didn’t seem to be much point.”

“No point?” Aziraphale gasped. “My dear, the immersion of oneself in human culture practically demands you sample their food!”

“Do you even remember the middle ages?” Crowley asked. “Pretty much everyone ate pretty much the same tasteless slop, unless you were a nobleman or something.”

“Yes, I recall,” Aziraphale replied with a shudder. “I was quite pleased when farming practices became more efficient.”

“Was that you?” Crowley said with a surprised grin. “I wondered how they figured it out so fast.”

“There is only so long one can eat a meal in which nothing is identifiable, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him.

“Yes, but you didn’t have to eat at all,” Crowley reminded him.

“I was under the impression that studying the humans would help me integrate more fully,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

Crowley looked around the deserted bookshop. “And how did that work out for you, then? Plenty of bosom buddies over the years?”

The angel looked exasperated, pushing down the hurt borne of memories. “You know I didn’t,” he said. “Too much like heaven.”

“Like heaven?” Crowley said, interested.

Realising he’d said too much, Aziraphale ducked his head, embarrassed. “Socialising is not my forte,” he admitted. “I try to connect with people, but I just don’t seem to have the right personality for making friends.”

Crowley made a rude noise at that. Surprised, Aziraphale looked over.

“You have got to be kidding me,” the ex-demon muttered. “Angels must be dumber than I gave them credit for.” Before he could elaborate, Crowley groaned, grasping at his stomach.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to change the subject. “You do realise,” he said, “that the sensation will only progress?”

“What?”

“Your hunger will get worse unless you eat something!” the angel said in exasperation.

“Fine!” Crowley said. He crossed his arms. “Miracle me something sinful, angel.”

Aziraphale looked at him, disapproval all over his face.

“Oh, alright, please,” Crowley bit out.

With a small smile, Aziraphale made a quick gesture and a plate appeared in front of Crowley.

“What the heaven is that?” he said, peering at the brown sludge on white bread.

“Try it,” Aziraphale said. “It has a certain reputation amongst humans.”

“Reputation for what?” the ex-demon muttered, taking a tentative bite. He tried to hide his reaction, but from the smug look on the angel’s face, his expression had given it away.

“Good?” Aziraphale asked casually.

“It’s not terrible,” Crowley allowed. “I could probably eat another, if you could…”

“I’ve heard this is also an acceptable serving method,” Aziraphale said. This time, the quick gesture resulted in a large open jar with a spoon sticking out of the top.

“Nut-ella,” Crowley read, taking an enormous spoonful into his mouth. He gave a groan of satisfaction, sliding down his chair and closing his eyes as he worked the sticky goo around his mouth.

Aziraphale most certainly did not sneak a look or three; he sat up straight, averting his eyes as much as possible from the mildly pornographic scene beside him. Absolutely none of his feathers ruffled at the sight, either.

“Now that,” Crowley said, the spoon finally clean, “is worth falling for.” He looked over at Aziraphale, who smiled at him uncertainly. “Anyone who wouldn’t make friends with you is a complete moron.”


	4. Deep Touch

“What is the matter?” Aziraphale asked. He was exasperated, there was no denying it; Crawley’s pacing was driving him crazy.

“Nothing,” Crawley snapped back. “I’m just…I don’t know.”

“Are you unwell?” Aziraphale asked, putting down his book. Rudyard Kipling could wait.

“I don’t believe so,” Crowley replied.

“Well, did you follow the checklist?” Aziraphale asked patiently.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, I checked all the things your human doctor suggested,” he replied wearily. “I’ve been resting, drinking water, eating, using the…bathroom. I’m not too hot or cold, I’m not in pain, and my vision is as normal as human vision is capable of being.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale replied. He thought for a moment. “Can you describe what is making you restless?”

“No!” Crowley replied, trying not to be too irritable. Aziraphale was trying to help, after all. “I need something. I don’t know what. It feels like...something's moving around under my skin. Not right under, deeper."

“Deeper?” Aziraphale repeated. He frowned. “Is there anything you can do to relieve it? Even temporarily. It might help me find something to help more lasting.”

Crowley looked over, his expression wary. “Well,” he said, “I was trying to scratch my shoulder before and I realised,” he hesitated.

“Yes?” Aziraphale replied encouragingly.

“I ended up almost…hugging myself.”

“Hugging,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes,” Crowley said. He watched apprehensively as Aziraphale thought about that.

Finally, the angel spoke. “Let me make a quick call.”

Crowley nodded, wrapping his arms around himself again. He’d been worried Aziraphale would make fun of him, which in retrospect was ridiculous. Angel had been nothing but supportive and helpful since this whole mess, he needed to be more appreciative. Nothing would be worse than doing this without Aziraphale. He’d come to rely on his only friend, his best friend, more than ever.

Demons would have sneered at him. Hell had not been a place in which anyone had been encouraged to show any kind of weakness. Satan below, he’d worked so hard to get out of there, to be on his own.

“Get up there, make some trouble,” Hastur had told him, and he’d jumped at the opportunity. Sure, the apple thing hadn’t gone to plan, but he’d managed to escape the demons long enough to stir up some more trouble, and they’d given up trying to bring him back once he’d reported on his successes. They might have been a tad exaggerated, but it had worked.

He just hadn’t planned on the loneliness. Or the boredom. Given how little he actually had to do to keep Hell happy, there were great swathes of time in which he was just…bored. Getting the London motorway organised had been a blissful few years – plenty of people to influence, computers to hack, things to track. Once he realised Aziraphale was amenable to an agreement, his motivation was not so much his own laziness as it was the opportunity to talk to someone. Anyone, who knew what he was, who understood the frustration of dealing with bureaucratic demons and was happy enough to complain about humans in a general kind of way.

Speaking to Aziraphale on the wall had been a gamble but it had paid off.

Well, he’d thought it had. Now, though, he was pacing in the angel’s sitting room, expelled from Hell and trying to figure out what the hell this human body needed.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, coming back into the room, “I believe we might have an answer.”

“Yeah?” Crowley replied. The angel was smiling, and that was a good thing, right?

“I think you need a hug,” Aziraphale said simply, and waited.

Crowley stared at him. His initial reaction was to sneer and deny it. A demon needing a hug was just stupid. But he wasn’t a demon any more, he had to stop thinking like that. He was a human, as odd as that felt, and his human body had done nothing but surprise him since he’d first had it. Plus, Aziraphale had clearly called some kind of human medical expert.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “So…hug me, then.”

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asked. He was clearly surprised.

“What?” Crowley said. “You didn’t think I’d say yes?”

“I didn’t think you’d even consider it,” Aziraphale replied.

“Well, I did. So come on, then.”

Aziraphale checked again before stepping in, his arms wrapping around Crowley with some trepidation.

It was…nice, Crowley thought, his arms coming around to rest against Aziraphale’s back. Nice, but not right, even if Aziraphale did smell very nice.

With an irritated noise, he pulled away. Aziraphale dropped his arms immediately, looking into Crowley’s newly brown eyes anxiously.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“It’s close,” Crowley said, frustrated with his ignorance. “But it’s lacking something. Something…tight. Heavy.” He winced. His words were awkward and not quite right.

Aziraphale’s eyes grew thoughtful, then he said carefully, “I’d like to try something.”

“Okay,” Crowley said.

“The doctor I spoke to suggested humans require deep contact for emotional wellbeing.”

“Deep contact?” Crowley said with some alarm.

“A hug, but tighter,” Aziraphale said. “May I?” he gestured forward, wanting to demonstrate.

“Yes,” Crowley said. It was worth trying, and something about the idea stirred his brain.

Another hug, much like the other. Aziraphale gave them a few seconds to settle into each other – breathing together, relaxing anxious muscles – and then he squeezed. Not too hard, Crawley thought, but the pressure on his ribs satisfied something deep within him. The restless shifting he couldn't control was easing. The anxiety that had been building slowly started dissipating, and the relief was palpable.

_Finally._

He didn’t hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears, but vibrations spread through his throat, so he must have groaned. Aziraphale hummed in response, tightening further, and Crowley felt himself melt into the embrace. It was perfect. He didn’t know how long they stood like that, as he drifted in and out, feeling the angle of pressure change as his ribcage expanded and contracted. Eventually, Aziraphale’s hold loosened, and they stepped apart.

Crowley breathed deeply. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Anytime,” Aziraphale replied gravely.


	5. Papercut

“ANGEL!”

Startled, Azirphale dropped the book he was holding and scurried over to find Crowley sitting on the floor cradling one hand, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked. He was learning that Crowley was not adjusting easily to a human existence. His name was shouted often, and it was rarely an emergency, and yet he couldn’t stop himself hurrying over. Just in case.

“These eyes,” Crowley said crossly from the floor. “And now, this hand.” He extended his hand for inspection.

“I can’t see anything,” Aziraphale replied, pulling the cord to turn on his lamp.

“Exactly!” Crowley replied. “I can’t see anything properly with these eyes.”

“Is it really that different?” Aziraphale asked tentatively. Surveying the floor, he spread out his handkerchief before sitting beside Crowley.

The ex-demon looked at him in surprise before answering. “Yes,” he said, still a little sullen.

Aziraphale had taken his hand, examining the miniscule cut on one finger as he spoke. “A papercut.” A single drop of blood had welled, and from what he could see, it wouldn’t bleed anymore. “From what I understand, you should suck on it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Humans suck on their minor injuries. I don’t know if it helps the healing process or if it makes it feel better, but I’ve seen it done.”

“That’s disgusting,” Crowley muttered, bringing his finger close. “Look, there’s blood on it. I don’t have to eat it, do I?”

Sighing, Aziraphale thought for a second, until he remembered a woman helping her child outside his shop. Quickly, he miracled himself a plaster and a tissue. “Very well, hold still.” With great care, and an overwhelming awareness of exactly how close he and Crowley were to each other, Aziraphale wiped over the cut, taking the blood with the tissue. He stripped off the protective ends, wrapping the plaster around the long finger in front of him.

“There,” he said, pleased with the neat job. Casting his mind back, he realised he’d missed a step.

Leaning in very carefully, Aziraphale pressed his lips to the bandage.

Crowley froze. “What…is that part of it?” he asked.

“From what I understand,” Aziraphale replied, “it is. For people you care about.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Okay then. Thanks.”

“Are your eyes alright?” Aziraphale called, caught off-guard as Crowley scrambled up.

“Yeah, fine, just need to remember to put the lights on,” Crowley muttered.

“You can’t see as well in the dark,” Aziraphale said.

“Got pretty used to it down there,” Crowley replied, examining his bandage. “It’s always too dark. And up here, my eyes still worked well in the dark. I thought it was just,” he shrugged, “how eyes worked.”

“I understand snakes see fewer colours than humans,” Aziraphale said, inviting Crowley to correct him.

“True,” Crowley replied. He looked up, a slight smile on his face. “Of course, I was an angel before I was a demon, so my eyes weren’t exactly like a snake.”

“Well how are they now?” Aziraphale frowned at his awkward question. “How are they different?”

“You look different,” Crowley replied.

“I do?” Aziraphale replied, smoothing one hand down his waistcoat.

“Yes, I never realised how bad that tartan actually was,” Crowley smirked. “Don’t you remember how different it was when you were me?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale replied, “but I wasn’t comparing it to human sight.”

“True,” Crowley allowed. He thought for a second. “I think it’s the brightness,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t say there are more colours, they’re just…louder.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Thank you. For explaining it.”

“How long will I need this?” Crowley asked, holding up his finger. He wrinkled his nose. “It still hurts.”

“It will, for a while. A matter of hours, I expect. The bandage can come off in a few days, I believe.”

“It’s not exactly stylish,” Crowley complained.

“No,” Aziraphale, “but it’s necessary.”

***

A few days later, Crowley found a small box on his pillow. Examining it, he realised it was a box of sticky bandages decorated with a pattern of snakeskin. A small piece of paper was attached – using one of the bandages, he saw.

_I thought these might be more your style. For next time. – A_


	6. Missing His Wings

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked in astonishment.

His voice startled both Crowley, perched on the open windowsill, and the pigeon sitting opposite him. While the bird spread its wings and flew away, recently humanized demons had fewer choices, and Aziraphale watched Crowley fall. Before he could hit the floor, a flick of angel fingers slowed time, allowing Crowley to right himself before he landed.

“Nothing,” Crowley grumbled. He clambered to his feet, straightening his waistcoat and flicking an irritated nervous gaze at Aziraphale.

It was such an unexpected combination of emotions Aziraphale found himself raising one eyebrow.

“If you offer it food it is more likely to stay,” Aziraphale offered. “Like the ducks in St James’ Park.”

Crowley froze for a moment. He glanced at Aziraphale before bolting out the door.

The angel stood still as the door crashed open. Something was bothering Crowley, that much was evident, but he had no idea what. This bird, and earlier in the week there’d been some kind of disaster with his pillow – it looked suspiciously like someone had taken a bread knife to it, but Aziraphale mended it without comment. The slightly ashamed look on Crowley’s face stopped him from asking. He couldn’t bear the idea of making his demon – ex-demon – uncomfortable.

Given the inevitability of things, though, it was less of a surprise than it might have been when Crowley walked in two hours later and stood, dripping, in the entrance to the shop.

“Angel!” he shouted.

Aziraphale dropped the scroll he was examining and raced out to the front. His white gloved hands were held out from his body, and he blinked for a moment, taking in the soggy, disgruntled and clearly embarrassed figure before him.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. The white gloves were gone in a minute, returned to his desk with a thought. The blinds drew on their own, as did the front door close and lock itself, despite the early hour.

Aziraphale didn’t speak again, waiting for Crowley to say something. The silence stretched out until Aziraphale realised that despite his angelic patience, he may never out-wait a stubborn Crowley.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked mildly.

“Are you going to miracle me dry?” Crowley retorted.

“When you tell me what happened, I will,” Aziraphale said. This was important, whatever it was, and he needed to know what was going on.

The silence carried on, only water falling from the hem of Crowley’s coat moving in the half light. Aziraphale amused himself by miracling each away before they could reach the carpet. It was almost soothing, and allowed him to remain quiet, waiting for Crowley to break their stalemate.

“Fine!” Crowley burst out finally. “I fell in the lake at St James’ Park.”

Whatever Aziraphale had expected, that was not it. He nodded thoughtfully, flicking one hand to remove the excess water from Crowley.

“Why?” he asked.

“Well it wasn’t on purpose,” Crowley snapped. When Aziraphale didn’t respond, he stood glowering for a moment. Finally, he sighed, and it was like he’d exhaled all his anger at the same time. “I was trying to catch a duck,” he said. The flush on his cheeks was new, Aziraphale thought absently.

“Why?” he asked again.

Crowley shrugged, a surprisingly diffident response.

“You’ve been chasing birds for days,” Aziraphale murmured. He was hoping Crowley wouldn’t disappear this time. Whatever it was, this was important and he wanted to help Crowley figure it out. Wasn’t that the rhythm they’d managed to fall into? For all his time living amongst humans, Crowley’d missed quite a lot of details along the way, and Aziraphale – whose knowledge was not always a long way ahead – was doing his best to help as Crowley learned to function in a human body.

“Not birds,” Crowley corrected. “Feathers.”

“Feathers,” Aziraphale repeated. Of course, that explained the pillow. Although… “I don’t understand.”

“I miss my wings,” Crowley blurted. “I just wanted to touch them.” The last admission was whispered, as though it was shameful.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied quietly. His heart cracked for the pain in his friend’s voice. Were they friends? Certainly closer than any other angel and demon had dared become since…since the Beginning.

As soon as the idea came to him, Aziraphale knew it was right. The trust involved was enormous, but who else would he trust with this? A small voice also pointed out that in human form there was little Crowley could do to damage him. Not that it mattered. For all the fundamental differences most of Heaven and Hell might see, when it came down to it, they were very similar creatures. Had been for six thousand years and probably more. It had just taken them most of that time to realise it.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale twitched his hand purposefully. The room blurred around them, and they were in the smaller back room of his shop.

“Wha…” Crowley started, spinning, then turning to face Aziraphale.

When he saw it, his voice failed, mouth hanging open.

Aziraphale’s heart was thumping. This space was private, as far as places on Earth could be private from Her, but it still felt strangely vulnerable to stand here like this in front of someone else. Carefully, not entirely sure of the dimensions, he stretched, allowing his wingtips to brush the walls before relaxing the muscles. It had been a long, long time since he’d appeared in this form to anyone.

He was calmer than he’d thought. Pounding heart, yes, but there was no fear. Crowley’s eyes were wide, and possibly his hand trembled as it rose a little before he could pull it back.

“If you want,” Aziraphale told him. The brown eyes pulled back from where they’d been following the graceful curve of the angel’s wings. They met pale blue, and Aziraphale nodded. “Go ahead. If you want.”

Crowley looked suddenly nervous, as though he wasn’t sure he should take the opportunity being offered him. He swallowed, and Aziraphale saw how much this meant to him.

Carefully, still a little rusty, Aziraphale reached one wing around, stretching the very tip out towards Crowley. He allowed the edge of his feathers to brush against Crowley’s shoulder. The shudder ran through both bodies as though sparks had burst into life by their contact. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s eyes close, fingers reaching out. He held still, mouth dry as long fingers tentatively brushed his feathers. He felt them shift under the touch. The muscles of his wings flexed with the movement, sparking more shivers, spiralling loosely out from the end of his wing.

It was one of the most intimate things Aziraphale could remember experiencing. As Crowley explored, tracing the shape of each feather, running them through his fingers, Aziraphale closed his eyes and let go, allowing the sensation to flow through his veins. He wondered absently if Crowley remembered his time in Heaven. Aziraphale hadn’t known him then, but he remembered how the angels used to sit, idly playing with each others’ wings, the deeply satisfying pleasure innocent enough in Her eyes. She hadn’t told them to stop; the orders to keep their wings more or less to themselves had come later, from the Archangels. Aziraphale always thought they were jealous. It was hard to take someone’s power seriously when your mind was floating in a sea of tactile pleasure.

Now, it felt like more. The pleasure was the same, Aziraphale thought as Crowley grew in confidence, stepping closer, running his palms along the line of the joint, smoothing the feathers from root to tip. The gentle pressure on his muscles was lovely. Crowley was standing closer now, running individual feathers through his fingers. Aziraphale found his wings folding in, surrounding Crowley in the closest thing to an embrace he’d experienced in millennia. His wings, soft and white and almost luminous, surrounded them in a small private space that felt glorious.

“Thank you,” Crowley said quietly. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, brown, human eyes rose to meet his, and the vulnerability in them was startling. “You must trust me.”

“I do,” Aziraphale replied simply.

Crowley nodded, a slight frown on his face. “Thank you,” he replied.

“Did you really not know?” Aziraphale said, surprised.

“I…hoped,” Crowley said, the carefully chosen word rending Aziraphale’s heart. “We are on our own team, and there is a certain necessity to our continued association.”

Aziraphale blinked. “You sound like me,” he said. “Big words.”

“Well,” Crowley replied, smiling slightly, “I guess you’ve rubbed off on me, angel.” He made to leave, but Aziraphale spoke before he could.

“Anytime,” Aziraphale said, hesitating. “It was nice.”

“Nice?” Crowley said. “I don’t do nice, remember?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “Comforting, then.” He searched for the right words, but he couldn’t shape them. They were too revealing. He smiled instead. “I liked it.”

“Good,” Crowley said. For a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to say something else, but the door closed quietly behind him and he was gone.


	7. Daytime Television

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's been away for a bit, and now Crowley's acting strangely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you know where I had the inspiration for a supernatural entity obsessed by this particular television show. :)

“Lunch, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, though the question was largely rhetorical. He’d been away for over a week, seeing to a rather tricky blessing up north, and Crowley normally hated when he was gone. Aziraphale tried to make sure there was plenty to do in his absence. People to hassle about their overdue fines, suppliers who may or may not have delivered their boxes on time. Little things that filled Crowley’s day. Even the occasional delivery, if there was a possibility of him getting to drive his car out of the city.

“Um,” Crowley said, glancing at his watch.

That was new, Aziraphale thought. Crowley had never paid a lot of attention to such small increments of time as hours. He was more or less human now, though, and Aziraphale knew humans could be overly interested in the specific time of day.

“I know you won’t eat,” Aziraphale said patiently, “but keep me company?”

The second pause was more than surprising – it passed into mildly alarming territory. When Crowley grudgingly agreed to come, Aziraphale watched him closely. He wanted to visit his favourite sushi shop on the far side of SoHo, but Crowley’s eyes widened so he instead nominated a pub around the corner.

Crowley was even more restless than usual, and Aziraphale noted he checked his watch eight times in the hour they were there. When he pored over the dessert menu, trying to decide between the spotted dick and the sticky date pudding, Crowley muttered something and pushed away from their table, striding out without another word.

Aziraphale blinked, wondering if he was alright. This was not like him, not at all. A flick of his fingers to leave money for their bill, and he followed his friend out.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, but he was gone. “Darn it, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered, “What is the matter with you?”

He was hovering somewhere between irritated and worried. Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale locked in on Crowley and miracled himself on a little trip.

When he blinked, he found he’d materialised behind a tree at the front of a retirement village. The name was vaguely familiar – had he sent Crowley here while he was away with an order? Either way, there was a familiar car in the parking lot so he knew he was in the right place. A quick flick of the wrist and he was unremarkable. Aziraphale hated the term invisible; technically he was encouraging people not to see him, and as long as he didn’t do anything extraordinary, he would go unnoticed. A marvellous idea, he must write to that Harry Potter woman and thank her for the idea. He hadn’t tried it on Crowley yet, but given how human he was becoming, Aziraphale would have been surprised if he’d be detected.

Cautiously, he waited until someone triggered the automatic doors, slipping in behind them. He wandered carefully through the foyer until he heard a familiar voice. So, Crowley was here then. Following the voice, Aziraphale poked his head around a doorjamb. Nothing prepared him for what he saw.

Crowley sat completely at ease on a floral patterned sofa. He held a teacup in one hand and what looked like a dark chocolate jaffa cake in the other. His glasses sat on a coffee table. He was leaning forward in animated debate with one of half a dozen frail old women sitting in the semicircle with him, watching…what _was_ that on the television? Ah, advertisments, Aziraphale realised, watching the hotdog dance across the screen.

“It’s not just about her infidelity,” Crowley was saying earnestly, “it’s Jarrod’s brother! I mean, think of the kids!”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t see the difference,” one of the women said. “An affair’s an affair, regardless of who it’s with.”

“I disagree,” another woman said. “He’s been cheating on her since the wedding, she should be able to sleep with whomever she wants!”

“Louisa!” someone admonished.

“Well, she should,” Louisa said stubbornly.

“But she doesn’t know he’s been cheating,” Crowley said. Aziraphale blinked. How was he following this conversation? And who were they talking about anyway?

“She will once Andrea’s baby is born,” someone said, “her husband’s white and there’s no way any kid of Jarrod’s going to end up entirely white!”

They all agreed, several of the women nodding sagely.

“Shhh!” Crowley hissed, as the ads finished and a daytime drama returned to the screen.

Aziraphale watched, flicking between Crowley and the television. He was enthralled, watching with as much interest as Aziraphale had ever seen him apply to anything. Nobody spoke unless the ads were on, and then the conversation was entirely based on the motives and actions of the characters on the screen. Crowley seemed to know as much as any of the women there, and he expressed his opinions freely. Aziraphale was fairly sure the people shown on the screen were actors, but from how invested they all seemed, it was possible they were real people.

How many people had Crowley met while he was away, and why were their lives being depicted on this television set? Aziraphale had many questions, not the least of which was about how Crowley came to be here in the first place.

The show ran for an hour, and when it was finished – leaving the viewers wondering what would happen when the aforementioned baby was born and her father realised he was not, in fact, her father – Crowley sighed. He left his cup in the saucer and smiled around at his companions.

“See you tomorrow, then?” One woman spoke as he stood.

“Probably,” he said, hesitating. “I’m not sure I’ll be as free to come every day, I’m afraid.”

“You should tell him,” someone encouraged him. “I’m sure he’d be happy to buy a television.”

“Or you could keep coming to see us,” someone else suggested.

“And bring this nice young man of yours with you!” Louisa added.

Crowley’s face was regretful and somehow sad. “I don’t know,” he said, trying to smile. “I’ll do my best. Biscuits on me next time.”

“Chocolate hobnobs please!” someone asked, and a laugh rippled through the group.

“We love seeing you, dear,” the woman next to Crowley said quietly. “But we understand you don’t want to upset your Aziraphale.” She patted his hand. “Make sure you’re happy, Crowley.”

“Thanks, Agnes,” he said. He picked up his glasses and headed for the door.

Aziraphale ducked out of the way as Crowley left, and stared after him. What on earth was going on? A little panicked, he followed Crowley, catching him as he reached his Bentley.

“Crowley,” he called, then gave a little wiggle to break the miracle encouraging people to ignore him.

Crowley turned, then froze when he saw Aziraphale there. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“You left so suddenly,” Aziraphale said, twisting his fingers together. “Didn’t even stay for dessert.”

“Yes,” Crowley said. He looked so nervous, Aziraphale thought.

“Are you…did you make some friends while I was away?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

Crowley shrugged, twisting his fingers together and not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “I made a delivery here,” he said. “They were watching some show, and I didn’t have anything else to do,” he shrugged again.

Aziraphale frowned. “So…you wanted to watch the show?” he asked.

“No,” Crowley said. “But the shop was empty, and there were people here.”

“You were lonely,” Aziraphale finally understood.

Crowley shrugged. “They watched a weeks’ worth of the same show, one right after the other. At first it was confusing, but they explained it, and,” he shrugged, a frown forming behind his glasses, “it started making sense.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied. He had no idea what to ask. “And so…you’ve been coming to see it with them?”

“It’s on in the middle of the day,” Crowley replied. “When I came they were having a…” he frowned, looking for the word, “…a marathon. But they watch it every day.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “Why…why didn’t you tell me?”

Crowley shrugged again. “It’s stupid,” he said. “The show. The characters. Nobody in real life behaves like that. But I still…” he blushed, “really like it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Crowley allowed.

“Do you want us to have a television?” Aziraphale asked. He frowned. “I’m not entirely sure how to go about doing that, truth be told.”

“I’d rather come here,” Crowley said, then dropped his head back in a far more familiar pose – overly dramatic. “Oh for…what is wrong with me?” he asked Aziraphale. “This show is terrible, but I must know what happens. I’ve started referring to it as ‘my show’,” he said, “and I’m drinking tea and eating biscuits!”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “It’s a human trait,” he said. “While some humans pride themselves on their superior taste in entertainment, there has always been a market for lower end productions. I believe this show of yours falls into the latter category, but its longevity and following do not suffer for it. In fact some of the longest running television dramas are of a similar ilk.”

“They are?” Crowley said. He blinked. “How do you know that?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “While Mrs. Browne-Anderson enjoys her collection of first edition lady Victorian authors, she has on occasion corralled me with freshly baked scones in order to discuss her opinions of the latest episode of _Passions_.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “She watches _Passions_?”

“I believe she is quite devoted,” Aziraphale replied. He smiled at his friend. “As, it appears, are you.”

“Oh…fiddlesticks,” Crowley muttered. “Another human thing.”

“Fiddlesticks?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes, I’m picking up your good habits,” Crowley said. “Plus I’m not allowed to swear or I have to buy the biscuits next time.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied, suppressing a grin. He hesitated before saying, “So we should factor this into our routine, then?”

“Yes,” Crowley said resignedly.

Aziraphale settled himself into the car at Crowley’s invitation, and watched his friend drive as aggressively as ever home, protected by Aziraphale, as usual. His friend was still surprising him, and he wondered if Crowley remembered feeling empathy, or if it felt new to him. Either way, it was interesting – as much to see it as to see Crowley’s adjustment to his new self.

And he has new friends, Aziraphale thought to himself.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that part.


End file.
